


Love with an Old Book of Rules

by capsicleonyourleft



Category: Batman (Comics), DCU, DCU (Comics), Superman (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, mentions of batfam - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-16
Updated: 2016-04-16
Packaged: 2018-06-02 14:45:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6570304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/capsicleonyourleft/pseuds/capsicleonyourleft
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For so long, Bruce had tried to shut off that part of himself, to resist the gravitational pull that Clark seems to have on him. He never stood a chance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love with an Old Book of Rules

**Author's Note:**

> Comicverse, meant to take place sometime before or leading up to the events of the _War Games_ storyline. Thank you to [ natasha-stark-rogers](http://natasha-stark-rogers.tumblr.com/) and [pensversusswords](http://pensversusswords.tumblr.com/) for the beta!
> 
> This is my first fic for the pairing, so any feedback/constructive criticism is very much appreciated!

Five minutes under the hot spray have done nothing to melt away the ice that’s seeped into his bones, the water pounding down on his aching muscles. Violent shivers overcome his injured body, his knees buckling under the strain of holding himself upright. He props his hands against the shower tiles for support, examining the angry bruising along his knuckles—likely to raise some prying questions, but those are easily dismissed with a gaudy story and a blithe smile. Lies are all too easy to reach for, after all, and they fall from Bruce Wayne’s lips with hardly any effort.

Passing his tongue over his teeth, he finds one of his molars has been knocked loose in the fight and reaches inside his mouth. It comes out with an insistent tug of his fingers, bloodied water carrying the tooth to disappear down the drain. He’ll deal with the dentist another day. Sloppy, catching that elbow like an amateur. Bruce spits and rinses his mouth, but the coppery taste remains thick and heavy on his tongue.

His eyes fly open in alarm—when did he close them?—as the bathroom door clicks open. Body tense, he straightens his back and positions his feet in a defensive stance. Leaving doors unlocked was the kind of habit you got into, when crawling home in various states of consciousness, and only a handful of people have the kind of access that would allow them to roam the premises of the Manor freely. Still, he would have— _should_ have—heard the approaching footsteps, had he been more alert. Getting caught off guard is not a mistake he can afford to make.

A familiar voice calls his name and Bruce gradually allows his shoulders to relax. In response, he opens the shower door wide open before turning back to face the spray. He listens to the rustle of clothing being shed, catching the blur of quick movement in his peripheral vision.

Clark presses himself close as soon as he steps inside, bringing with him warmth, his hands gentle on Bruce’s shoulders.

“Jesus, B,” he says, no doubt studying the constellation of bruises that litter Bruce’s back, all in various stages of healing. Bruce wonders if the colourful array masks his old scars or only makes them stand out more. Clark’s hands find the newest addition with ease: three deep diagonal gashes across his shoulder blade, stitched shut by Alfred’s expert hands not three days ago. Gently, Clark’s fingers brush against the jagged tissue, a ghost of a touch, and Bruce fights the instinct to pull away.

He wets his lips, struggling to find his voice. “Was it Alfred or Dick who called you?”

Unable to keep the irritation out of his tone, it comes out as more of an accusation than a question, gruff and impatient. He’s not in need of a chaperone, dammit; he’d allowed Alfred to tend to his injuries, assured Dick he was perfectly fine. That last part, he supposes, means little by now.

“Actually,” says Clark, ignoring the bite in Bruce’s words, “it was Tim.”

Bruce frowns. “He’s away with the Titans.”

“Which is exactly why he knew you’d be trying to tackle too much by yourself while he’s gone, especially with Dick homebound because of his broken leg.”

Something remarkably akin to guilt knots itself in Bruce’s stomach, tugging at old and new injuries alike, heating his skin with shame. There are days when he looks at Tim and sees so much of himself in the boy that it scares him like few other things have. Tim has, at least, always been much freer with lending his trust and heart—Dick’s influence, no doubt. Dangerous and ill-advised as that particular trait can be, part of Bruce hopes the streets of Gotham won’t ever rob him of it.

“Hey,” says Clark, using his grip on his shoulder to turn Bruce around until they’re facing each other. His expression is open and tender, infinitely patient; somehow, Clark is always able and willing to extend kindness when Bruce deserves it the least.

A familiar rush of anger slices through Bruce’s body, hot and quick as a knife. He struggles to force it down, swallowing the bitter words that want to escape. Instead, he sways in Clark’s embrace, leaning into the touch as warm hands cup his face.

“When was the last time you slept?” asks Clark, gently thumbing the deep bags under Bruce’s eyes, sunken and dark enough to be mistaken for bruises.

Bruce makes a noncommittal noise, unable to come up with the answer. Three, four days ago? He’s fairly certain he managed a solid two hours of shut-eye sometime yesterday. “I’m fine,” he adds by way of habit.

“Of course you are,” Clark rolls his eyes. “You need rest, Bruce. Take the next couple days off, at least. Recuperate.”

Irritation itches its way under his skin, the vein in his neck pulsating with it. “I have work to do, Clark.” The city is on the cusp of something major; he can feel it every night on patrol, the air crackling with it.

“And there always will be,” Clark reasons. “That doesn’t change the fact you need—”

“ _What I need_ ,” Bruce cuts in, his voice a growl, “is for you to stop telling me how to do my job, Kansas, as if you know a damn thing about this city.”

Clark’s nostrils flare. “You can be such an insufferable ass,” he says, and Bruce feels a brief moment of satisfaction at cracking his patience, bringing him down to his level. If he didn’t already know the answer, he’d wonder what kind of person that makes him. “Godammit, Bruce!” Clark continues, his anger mounting. “You _know_ the only reason you took this much of a beating tonight is because you’ve been pushing yourself nonstop for the past week! It’s the first thing you and Dinah tell new League members when you train them: ‘overexertion is your enemy.’ Doesn’t the same apply to you?”

He’s right, of course; Bruce had been slower tonight, his coordination and balance affected by his poor state, the strain in his muscles making his motions sloppy and weak.

“If this is all you came here for,” he says, eyes cold and tone challenging, “then perhaps it’s best you return to Metropolis.”

Clark sighs, letting his arms drop to his side, and Bruce expects this to be the moment he walks out. Instead, Clark reaches past him to grab the soap, and soon his hands are dancing all over Bruce’s body, catching on mangled skin and ugly scars. Bruce lets his eyes slip shut, not wanting to see Clark’s expression as he explores the ruins of his body, the topography of his failures. No matter how many masks he dons, the evidence of his frailty is scrawled all over the rough canvas of his skin, and he hates for Clark to witness it. Yet, somehow, every part of him where Clark touches feels lighter, warmer, the weight tethered to his shoulders suddenly easier to bear.

It’s pathetic, really, how much he’s come to crave that touch, and so incredibly foolish. For so long, he had tried to shut off that part of himself, to resist the gravitational pull that Clark seems to have on him. He never stood a chance.

_You’ve lost your mind, Wayne._

After every inch of skin has been scrubbed clean, Clark generously pours shampoo onto his palm and cards his fingers through Bruce’s hair, working up a lather. Bruce thinks about protesting, but instead a relieved moan escapes his lips when those fingers start massaging his scalp. Clark pays special attention to his temples, where blood has caked around his hairline, and Bruce allows his eyes to fall shut.

“You’re a dangerous man, Clark Kent,” he says in a daze, the words tumbling out without permission.

The warmth of Clark’s body and the comfort of his touch are removed in an instant, and Bruce opens his eyes to find a chasm of space has opened between them. Clark’s brows are furrowed and his mouth parted, pain and betrayal etched onto his handsome face. In horror, Bruce replays the last fifteen seconds in his head.

“I,” he starts, finding himself at a loss, his mouth dry. The only sound in the room is the patter of water against porcelain. Bruce stands helpless, shampoo suds trickling down into his eye. “Fuck,” he says next, which only causes Clark to flinch and take another step back. “ _Kal_. That’s not how I meant it. I— _that’s not what I meant_.”

Of Clark’s many remarkable abilities, Bruce only fears one: the way in which he manages to barrel through all of Bruce’s carefully-structured defences, toppling them down one by one. Even more concerning is the fact that, more often than not, Bruce _wants_ him to.

Clark’s face all but crumples, his voice miserable when he speaks. “I thought this was behind us.”

“It is,” Bruce says urgently, risking a step in Clark’s direction. When he doesn’t back away, Bruce closes the rest of the distance between them, letting his forehead drop onto Clark’s shoulder. “I swear,” he says, pressing the words into Clark’s neck, hoping they can convey what he means to say. Desperation claws at his heart, a painful constriction building up in his chest. He reaches for Clark’s waist to anchor himself. “I’m trying. I swear to you that I am. I just—”

He chokes on the rest of the sentence, the familiar sense of dread clogging his throat, turning his blood to ice as it spreads through his body. Clark brings his hand to the back of his head, fingers threading through his hair in silent encouragement. Bruce squeezes his burning eyes shut and forces the confession past his lips.

“I’m not sure that I know how to let anyone love me.”

_I know that you shouldn’t_ , he doesn’t say, because that’s an argument they’ve had one too many times, and he can’t muster up the required energy to repeat it tonight. Tomorrow, under the unforgiving light of day, Bruce will berate himself for this show of vulnerability; tonight, in a dark cave with an invulnerable man by his side, it’s a moment he fights to allow himself.

Clark clasps his hand around the back of his nape until Bruce lifts his head, tilting his chin up. Unobscured by thick glasses, the brilliant blue of his eyes makes Bruce feel bare in a way that has nothing to do with their naked bodies.

“Of course you do,” Clark says firmly, a smile tugging on his lips. “Look at the people around you. Your family, the League… You’ve let us all in, in your own way.”

_Family._

The sound of gunshots echoes in his ears, followed by the clink of pearls scattering along the pavement. Fire licking through the layers of his armour as he searches the wreckage of a warehouse and finds the lifeless body lying underneath the smouldering remains.

Most days, he can’t bear to speak Jason’s name out loud, his throat closing up and lungs burning, guilt and grief drowning him. Cassandra had asked him once, not long ago, about the battered Robin suit encased in glass. Bruce had stopped his work on the computer, decryption be damned, and left the room. It took a whole hour for his hands to stop shaking.  That night, he sat beside Jason’s grave until dawn, tracing the engraving of his name over and over and over again, until the stone had cut into his fingers.

Family, in his experience, tends to be brutally ripped apart.

“Bruce,” Clark calls, sounding far away. He cups Bruce’s face in his palm, rubbing circles against the hinge of his jaw. “Stay with me. I’m right here.”

Bruce tries very hard to focus on his voice, letting it drag him back to present.

“Are you all right?”

Bruce rubs at his eyes, suddenly saddled with the weight of exhaustion, feeling it down to his bones. “I’m fucking this all up, aren’t I,” he says, more an observation than a question.

“You’re doing just fine,” says Clark. His hands return to Bruce’s hair, tipping his head towards the spray, rinsing the remaining lather off. He leans in for a kiss, a gentle but firm press of their lips together. If Clark minds the lingering taste of blood, he speaks nothing of it. He wraps his arms around Bruce, pulling him close. “We’re doing just fine.”

Bruce rests his hand on Clark’s chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart, and lets himself believe it.

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr](http://kentswaynes.tumblr.com/post/142855078509/fic-bruceclark-pg-13-hurtcomfort-2k)


End file.
